"
* * * * *
The day of the race: bell's a-ringin'
To clear the course for the start.
I gets to an out-o'-way corner;
Then, quickly as lightning, I dart
My hand 'neath my silken jacket,
Pops a tiny phial to my lips,
Then off to mount "Painted Lady"--
Sharp into the saddle I slips.
In a minute or two we were streaming
Down the course at a nailing pace;
But I lets the mare take it easy,
For I feels as I've got the race
Well in hand. "No, nothing can touch ye:
You'll win!" I cries--"Now then, my dear!"
All at once I feels fairly silly;
Then I comes over right down queer.
I dig my knees into her girths, sir;
I let the reins go--then I fall
Back faint, and dizzy, and drowsy--
"Painted Lady" sweeps on past them all.
She can't make out what's a happenin',
Flies on--maddened, scared with fright--
And wins--by how far? well, don't know, sir,
But the rest hadn't come in sight.
I was took from the saddle, lifeless;
I've heard as they thought me dead;
And after I rallied--"'Twas funny!
'Twas curious--very!" they said.
* * * * *
The matter was all hushed up, sir;
Sir Hugh dussn't show 'is hands.
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